


Don't Shoot me, Santa

by LunaCanisLupus_22



Series: Professional. Assholes. Competent. Killers [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, And then he's having a VERY good time, BAMF Stiles, Christmas Party, Christmas Smut, Contract killing, Drunk Assassins, Drunk Werewolves, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Knotting, PACK's Annual Christmas Party, Pack Family, Porn With Plot, Santa Kink, Sexy Santa, Stiles is a total Grinch, Stiles is not having a good time, Stilinski Family Feels, Yeah it's a thing, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCanisLupus_22/pseuds/LunaCanisLupus_22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Scott greets, as he sidles up toward the balcony on Stiles’ left. He’s smart enough not to try and sneak up behind him- Jackson learnt that lesson the hard way. His werewolf hand didn’t heal for <em>hours</em> because Stiles broke so many bones. “How you doing?”</p><p>“Oh you know me, Scotty,” Stiles replies, viciously tearing apart some tinsel that had been wrapped painstakingly around the balcony’s rail a few seconds earlier. “Full of Christmas cheer.”</p><p> </p><p>Or the Annual PACK Christmas party fic where Derek is otherwise unavailable and Stiles wallows. A lot. Until he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Shoot me, Santa

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short annual PACK Christmas party add-on fic for [Shot Through the Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/545736/chapters/971362) that nobody asked for!
> 
> I do have future plans to write more for this Assassin AU- mostly about their annual PACK games, where friendly (or not so friendly competition) abounds between the members of PACK to see who is the better Assassin. (We all know who it's gonna be, c'mon).
> 
>  
> 
> For now, though, I hope you enjoy this. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and to those who don't, have a happy holiday spending time with family and friends or taking a much needed break for the New Year!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> ☆;:*:;☆;:*:;☆ Ｍｅｒｒｙ　Ｘ’ｍａｓ☆;:*:;☆;:*:;☆

  
  
  


Stiles’ first thought once he steps onto the rooftop terrace of The Peninsula hotel is that the holidays fucking suck. 

This wondrous epiphany comes after a torturous five hour flight from California to New York for PACK’s first ever annual Christmas party in which he was stuck seated in front of Satan’s spawn itself who deemed Stiles’ seat as a personal enemy and necessary kick mat.

He’d tried to be nice about it. Politely asked the kid to stop and everything. Take the high road. Do the normal thing, especially with his dad enjoying himself a few rows ahead of him, flirting shamelessly with one of the older flight attendants. His father is all air though. Stiles knows he and Melissa hit it off at the PACK barbeque a few weeks ago and knows he wanted to invite her to the party tonight but chickened out. Some Sheriff. 

His dad would be disappointed though if he'd murdered the little monster during the flight. And he'd hoped not to be pushed too far into losing his cool.

But no. When asked to stop the kid blew a raspberry at him. A freaking raspberry. Stiles had let it slide, figured that was infantile communication for ‘sorry, dude won’t happen again’.

No dice. The parents on either side of demon child were conked out on sleeping pills or maybe they just up an died in protest of the little asshole they’d brought into the world. Stiles didn’t think it was possible to be under ten and belong on his hit list, but apparently the kid was fucking ambitious.

Whatever the reason, the point is, when the little bastard started kicking up a storm against the back of his seat again some two minutes later, there were no respectable adults around to stop him.

Stiles is mostly a reasonable guy. Hey, he shoots people for a living, he’s all but running his own illegal business and he’s got a ridiculously, hot werewolf fiancé that likes to sex him on the regular- but he’s no monster.

And that’s why he didn’t kill the little shit when he started up again. Oh no. Stiles very calmly sat up, turned and gave the kid a _look_. Spawn of Satan made an odd squeaking sound and that was the last thing Stiles heard for the duration of the flight. Sweet bliss. And he didn’t even have to break any fingers.

That’s not really the problem. The real problem is that said ridiculously hot, werewolf fiancé that likes to sex him up on the regular and who might've been able to successfully calm said previous approaching storm, is currently nowhere to be found.

  
  
  


  
Okay, Stiles knows where he is, obviously. He keeps tabs on his alpha boyfriend when he's on assignment. Even if said assignment led him into Pakistan's, Concordia- a literal glacial confluence of the Baltoro Glacier and Godwin-Austen Glacier where some of the highest fucking peaks in the world are clustered. It's literally a ten day trek to even _get_ there and it'll probably take years for Derek to find his guy in all those mountains and snow, despite the fact that he's done it successfully before. In the Arctic though, which may as well be another fucking planet right now. 

It sucks ass. This was supposed to be their first Christmas in their apartment together and they’d had plans alright? Most of them including, christening the fuck out of every inch of the place with raucous, enthusiastic sex and now- 

Stiles will be lucky if he works up the energy to festively jerk himself off alone. Basically Derek’s shitty, elusive target has thrown a wrench in all of their fun, possibly illegal holiday plans and if Stiles had known the asshole would be such an effort to kill, he would’ve come along and finished the job his goddamn self. 

And that’s why if he spots mistletoe anywhere tonight he’s gonna shove it up the closest person’s ass. Or shoot them in the face with it. Non-lethally of course, since all of the people at this goddamn bullshit party are colleagues or family. 

There’s not much cause for complaint at the moment. They’ve had a really good first year, starting up PACK after ABOM-nation and ALPHA dissolved and Stiles doesn’t want to outright say they’re raking in the cash or anything- but they’re absolutely raking in the cash. 

Hence the ridiculously expensive Christmas party at The Peninsula’s rooftop city bar, Salon de Ning which offers picturesque skyline views of fifth avenue and the many bustling streets of Manhattan, New York. Apparently assassins are suckers for any kind of lavish and grand taste. Yeah, tell that to Greenberg who lived in the woods like an animal for a freaking month. 

And Stiles can’t even hang out with his bro Scotty at the moment to help cheer him up. Mostly because he’s all wrapped up in Isaac- they just bought a puppy together so the sappy shit is strong in the both of them. Scott’s eyes have literally transformed into hearts right about now. Isaac’s no better. 

What kind of ruthless assassins are they? Stiles wonders if a stray bullet will help them remember. 

Everyone’s rugged up and split off into their groups, mingling, eating, drinking, laughing and generally enjoying themselves like the kind of traitors they are. Et tu, Brute? Stiles can’t help but notice they're all paired into couples. The motherfuckers. 

Scott and Isaac are canoodling by the chocolate fountain, Boyd's feeding Erica strawberries at the food table and Danny's handing Jackson one of the drinks he’s grabbed from the bar- there’s a tab (they’re ruthless assassins, of course there’s a tab). His dad is curled up on what definitely looks like some kind of love couch, arms spread theatrically as if he's having a grand time on his own and that doesn't bode well. Laura’s brought a handsome date who is naturally enraptured by her and Finstock’s brought his wife which is something Stiles didn’t think was possible- Finstock having a wife to bring to fancy parties. 

Lydia and Alison haven’t arrived yet and he’s heard along the grapevine that Chris is dating again so he’ll be bringing someone too. 

And then there’s Stiles, all alone because his jackass boyfriend doesn’t know how to kill someone quickly or efficiently. Hell, Stiles very nearly killed him a few times. There's no doubt Derek needs to up his game a little. But for now, Stiles is forever alone and despite the looming holidays, it's not something he feels like celebrating or enjoying. 

He's trying not to be bitter about it, being alone in the festive season and all, but he hates everyone and wishes they would die. 

Fine, maybe not everyone. He could stand to lose Jackson, though. And since work’s been put off until the New Year in the meantime, he doesn’t even have that to distract him from his empty bed. From _their_ empty bed. 

It’s not snowing yet, though the weather reports said it’s a possibility and Stiles just adds freezing his nuts off to the list of shitty things that are happening tonight. He stomps on over toward the edge of the terrace, listening attentively to the sound of traffic and life below and allows himself to be swept away in it. There's something therapeutic about the endless noise. 

It's terrible because Stiles can sometimes be a party animal at these sort of things, but a PACK Christmas party sans Derek has definitely put a dampen on any chance of that and only slightly crushed his soul. 

He’d been looking forward to this for weeks and Derek had assured him the assignment was a simple one- in and out. Famous last words. He updates Stiles whenever he can, but he's in the middle of nowhere and it’s been a few days since his last text. So he’s resolved himself to the fact that Derek isn’t going to make it. The fact that he misses Derek like burning is not at all helping the situation. 

That doesn’t mean he’s not going to get drunk and generally resent things though. If there’s a Santa costume somewhere, he’s absolutely going to throw up on it. Festive rebellion at its finest. 

For now, he’s nursing his drink, wishing it's something hot instead that could warm his fingers. Even in the cold, Stiles doesn’t like to wear gloves, he finds they constrict his movements and in high intensity moments he needs the dexterity. Especially when he's firing at a target. But that's probably not necessary when he’s at a suave, PACK Christmas part though. Who knows, maybe he’ll get lucky. That'll _definitely _make the evening more interesting.__

“Stop sulking,” someone tells him unsympathetically and he doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. 

“I’m not sulking,” he argues. “I’m _wallowing_ , Lydia. There’s a difference.” 

Lydia’s expression tells him if he doesn’t pull his head out of his ass soon enough she’s going to throw him over the balcony. She'll do it, too. Stiles doesn’t doubt her for a second. 

Allison smiles at him compassionately, full of understanding because she's the innocent flower to Lydia's serpent under it, but since she’s standing there holding Lydia’s hand she’s also Stiles’ arch nemesis by proxy. So unfair. Even Lydia gets to be happy and go-lucky with her girlfriend. She even smiles a lot more now and it’s without the glint of imminent death in her eye. 

“Well if you’re not going to get over it and celebrate with the rest of us, then go wallow somewhere else.” 

Stiles really isn’t in the mood to die today in a sudden death match against Hecate herself, though who’s to say he won’t come out on top? There's no telling who might win that fight. Either way, he doesn’t have the energy to find out. 

“Will do,” he salutes, and it’s only 99 per cent sarcasm. He can't help being a smartass- he's been trained that way. 

Lydia’s eyes narrow dangerously, but Stiles is already looking past her shoulder at the sight of Greenberg of all people as he arrives and even _that_ nutbar has a date. A particularly gorgeous date, Stiles can't help but notice. _He's_ not alone for Christmas. And Greenberg's the strangest PACK agent they have. Stiles’ life is nothing but suffering. He groans softly and tosses back the rest of his glass in an attempt to wipe the image from his brain. 

“I need another drink,” he mutters and he’s darting past them to head back toward the bar and continue this pity part by himself. 

He catches Erica’s eye across the room and she’s smirking at him as she and Boyd pass a bottle quickly between them, draining it like it’s a competition. They’re not much for big social outings either, so it’s gratifying to see they share the same vague sense of disparaging horror as he does. Stiles doesn’t need to guess there’s wolfsbane in that bottle- apparently it’s the only way werewolves can get drunk. By poisoning themselves, go figure. 

Stiles is learning all sorts of wolfy secrets being a part of the supernatural dream team now. Erica winks at him and Boyd gives his typical blank faced stare that can even ruffle some of Lydia’s feathers. Boyd is an impressive human being. Stiles is very glad to have him on their team. 

And it turns out Stiles actually likes Erica and her boyfriend, Boyd (after they were nice enough to replace his TV) and they often go to the shooting ranges together sometimes just for shits and giggles. Mostly because they get to act terrible so as not to draw attention to themselves- them without their werewolf senses and Stiles without his infallible precision. Just a couple of regular Joe's. 

In one of ALPHA’s leftover safehouses, there’s a private shooting range that practically gives Stiles a boner every time he sees it- much more now since Derek let him at it to make some proper adjustments- and they plan to use it when their first ever annual PACK games comes around. 

It was Stiles’ idea, to generate some teamwork between the freshly minted assassin group and also as an excuse to kick everyone’s- mostly werewolf- asses. The inspiration came to him after their PACK barbeque at his dad's house a few weeks ago where some friendly competition became more cut-throat than friendly. Only these PACK games will be on a larger scale, more efficient with rules and regulations- all the official stuff to prove who's the best. 

His dad offered to be the judge, since he's the most impartial when doling out embarrassment for any, and everyone he comes into contact with. They’ve only just finished up all the preparations for it, but every member of PACK is already keen and it’s mostly because assassins are competitive and egotistical assholes. 

Their first ever, official PACK games starts in the New Year and Stiles can’t wait to destroy them all. It’s gonna be great. 

But even the prospect of humiliating his colleagues isn’t enough to calm his craptastic mood and Stiles storms towards the bar, scowling. His dad happens to be in his path of destruction and when he catches sight of Stiles’ face, reaches out and grasps onto his coat sleeve. In the next second, Stiles is twisting underneath his hand, at an angle that forces him to let go before he realises who grabbed him in the first place and winces. Fuck. 

“Oh,” he says, sheepishly. “Sorry, Dad. What’s up? You having fun?” 

The Sheriff waves away his questions. “You know you’re allowed to miss him, son. I know you and Derek were both excited to be at this party together.” 

Stiles sighs and drags his hand over his face with the proper amount of disdain for the universe and his shitty luck. “Yeah, I know. It’s just been a while. I’m used to having the asshole around is all. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” 

“Well don’t let sex deprivation get you down,” he says. “You’ve got to look after yourself.” 

As if that’s not horrifying enough to say, his father helpfully makes a gesture that indicates jerking off, just to be certain Stiles got his meaning. Fucking A, it’s hard to miss. Please, never let him do that again. 

Stiles groans in defeat and face palms. 

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Jesus.” 

The Sheriff doesn’t look entirely convinced, but the great part about that is Stiles disappears into the crowd before he can pull him up on it. 

The bar is help yourself- they paid extra for no staff up here tonight- because drunk, lethal assassins and innocent civilians does not a good mix make. Stiles is gonna allow half an hour before he locks the main doors to Salon de Ning just so nobody can come in and see anything they shouldn’t. Drunk assassins normally end up bragging shamelessly about their list of kills, popping claws out and getting competitive and that's on the list of no-fly topics that civilians generally flinch at. Or run away screaming from. They do not need that kind of heat right now. 

The whole area has been decorated to an implausible level of festive which probably means Lydia was involved (maybe Greenberg too) and Stiles grimaces at the reds and greens clashing up the place as he disappears behind the bar. If an area can look like Christmas threw up on it, then this is definitely the place. 

He pours himself a generous amount of whiskey since it is definitely not a beer kind of night, but still grabs a bottle for his dad. Once that's been delivered, with a fond pat on the back from the Sheriff- who Stiles knows will be up to no good tonight- he disappears to the furthest reaches of the balcony to continue his wallowing. Pity party for one. 

He’s not trying to be an asshole- most of the time it comes naturally anyway- but it’s hard to suck it up and have fun when literally everyone gets to celebrate with their prospective partners and his is off somewhere in the Pakistani wilderness. He can’t help but feel a little left out. 

The breeze has picked up, and Stiles misses his rifle more than ever when he’s standing at such a great vantage point. There’s so much more he’d be able to see through his scope. Not that he has anyone to shoot at the moment, but the thought is relaxing enough. Stiles can almost imagine the Rockerfeller Centre a few blocks away with it’s glowing trees already lit up past respectable electrical consumption and thinks he’d very much like to shoot that. 

But the whole point of this business is staying off the radar so he rides out the fantasy for a little while to pass the time and ease his mood. Especially when he doesn’t even have a weapon to hold in his grip right now. It helps only a little. 

The whiskey helps a lot more. 

“Hey,” Scott greets, as he sidles up toward the balcony on Stiles’ left. He’s smart enough not to try and sneak up behind him- Jackson learnt that lesson the hard way. His werewolf hand didn’t heal for hours because Stiles broke so many bones. “How you doing?” 

“Oh you know me, Scotty,” Stiles replies, viciously tearing apart some tinsel that had been wrapped painstakingly around the balcony’s rail a few seconds earlier. “Full of Christmas cheer.” 

“It doesn’t have to be so bad, you know. I know it’s not ideal, but I mean, look you’ve got all your friends here, plus Jackson, and we’re all drinking and having a good time.” 

Stiles hates to rain on his parade, but Scott should just be pleased he’s not raining bullets at this stage. There’s no guarantees he won’t later on in the evening. After he’s destroyed every one of these malicious and threatening decorations littering the place. What? Someone has to do it and Stiles is magnanimous enough to make that sacrifice. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he agrees. “We’re all a fucking Kodak commercial. How you doing anyway? How’s the dog?” 

“Oh yeah, I’m doing really good,” Scott promises, munching on cheese and crackers he's snagged from the table- they’ll run out of food before the night is over make no mistake. Werewolves and food are a dangerous mix. 

Scott only just got back from his last assignment of the year two days ago and he’s been too wrapped up in seeing his boyfriend and buying their new dog that they havn’t been able to squeeze in bro time to hang out yet. 

“And Brutus is a handle but we love her.” 

“As in Marcus Julius Brutus? The assassin who killed Caesar? Wait- you named a girl fucking Brutus? Fuck, that’s awesome.” 

“Yeah,” Scott agrees proudly before he pulls out his cell phone and shows Stiles a picture. 

“What the fuck?” he gasps, staring with an open mouth. “What _breed_ is that? She looks like a cross between an ugly ass old man and a fucking ewok, Scotty.” 

“She’s a Brussels Griffon,” Scott retorts, offended and right, probably not the best idea to insult a dog to a werewolf. That might be a little too close to home. But, Jesus, she's hideous. It's actually, well, it's kind of fucking endearing to be honest. Maybe he won't shoot her when he finally goes around to visit Scott and Isaac's place. That face might even earn a scratch behind the ears. If he feels like it. 

Allison’s standing across the other side of the terrace with Isaac and they wave Scott over, seemingly so he can show more pictures of their ugly, old man ewok but female dog named Brutus. Jesus. 

Stiles wisely decides not to join them. 

A half hour passes this way, with Stiles idly watching traffic, destroying more tinsel with his frozen fingers and working on his glass full of whiskey- he should’ve just grabbed the damn bottle. At least the alcohol warms him up. 

Once he’s sure everyone who’s meant to be here is here- all of PACK, minus Derek's creepy uncle because Laura wisely refused let him join their new business and Stiles was just as agreeable, so he's not invited tonight. And since Chris and his date rocked up ten minutes ago that means Stiles can head over to the main doors to lock it (thank Christ the bathrooms are _inside_ the venue). He ends up staring down the hallway morosely for a few seconds longer than necessary as if Derek will magically appear there. 

When he spots someone striding toward him, dark haired and stubbled, it’s ridiculous how high his hopes soar. Two steps closer and Stiles’ sharp eyes quickly perceive that it’s not him. The man’s still walking toward him though, carrying something. His intuition flickers and Stiles retrieves one of his knives stowed in his long coat just to be sure. 

The t-shirt inside the heavy duty parka the guy is wearing has the logo of a delivery company, and that’s about the most suspicious thing on the freaking planet since Stiles has used that cover many o’ times to complete assignments. Delivery people can get _anywhere_ , it's a proven science. 

“This is Salon de Ning, right?” the guy asks once he’s close enough, and while he might be good looking, he’s certainly no Derek Hale. 

“Yeah," he replies, suspiciously. "What’s in the box?” 

The package is fairly long, probably not the right shape to be a bomb, but that doesn’t mean Stiles is eager to get his hands on it. The guy shrugs and his eyes linger on him longer than strictly necessary. Good luck, asshole. 

“No idea.” 

“Who’s it for?” Stiles wonders, eyes narrowing as he stares at it. 

It’s either a prank or something very dangerous. He’s not sure which one he’ll be happier to see. 

“No name,” the delivery dude says. “No sender, either. It’s supposed to be delivered to this address tonight, that’s all.” 

“Right,” Stiles mutters, drawing it out to empathise just how suspect that is. If this is the competition’s way of attempting to murder everyone in PACK, it’s pretty pathetic- not that they have anyone worth considering as competition at the moment. 

Did Stiles mention PACK has had a really good year? His payslip alone nearly gave him an aneurysm. 

“Merry Christmas,” the guys says, after Stiles has signed for it and accepted the potential explosive. 

“I’m an atheist,” he deadpans, mostly because he’d like for this guy to take his cheerful ass elsewhere, but when the delivery dude gets tongue tied apologising profusely for assuming anything, it makes it worth it. Serves him right. 

Stiles watches him leave and waits until he’s entirely out of sight before he sets the box down. He gently slices open the plastic with his knife, listening carefully for any telling beeping sounds when he cautiously removes the lid. 

The first thing he notices is the card placed on top of another case inside the box and the second thing he sees is that the handwriting is Derek’s. Hardly daring to believe it, Stiles picks it up and unfolds it, hands trembling a little with excitement. 

_Merry Christmas, Stiles,_ it reads, 

_Sorry I couldn’t make it to our first Christmas party together. I promise to make it up to you. This is just the beginning._

 _Love, Derek._

Stiles is already grinning like an idiot before he spots the postscript underneath it. 

_P.S. Don’t shoot anyone with this tonight, Stiles. I mean it._

Oh. Oh fucking _yes_. Stiles scrambles to open it up after that, throwing caution to the wind altogether. 

It’s a brand spanking new rifle. An NSG-85 semi-automatic to be accurate, used by the Chinese Military and one that follows the style of Soviet SVD sniper line of 7.62mm calibre. It’s also one of the most recent sniper rifles that the gun toting community has been raving about. It debuted in ’14 but its lack of iron sights and lightweight composites where applicable make it a precision weapon for only a true expert marksman which is why Stiles promptly fell in love with it. 

It’s so beautiful. Stiles doesn’t even care there’s no flash suppressor or another sort of muzzle attachment. Stiles has always been flashy and loves the chance to draw attention to himself even when firing a sniper rifle. But if it becomes a problem on assignments, he’s already well ahead of that curve. Derek had seen his plans to improve the NSG-85 with his own personal flash guard design on their kitchen bench one morning. 

And now it’s in his freaking hands. Stiles can’t believe it. He breathlessly picks up the package and takes the whole thing back inside, locking the door behind him. He'd seen a picture of it on his laptop online when he and Derek had been on their couch watching TV a few months ago and he’d sat there staring at it for twenty minutes. Derek had had to wave his hand in front of his face to bring him out of the weapon daze. 

Stiles can’t believe that Derek bought it from him. He is going to shoot _so_ many things. 

“What’s that?” Erica wonders curiously, wandering over from the bar and bringing the bottle of wolfsbane infused wine with her. It's a new bottle. She and Boyd are definitely getting drunk tonight. 

“Derek bought me the NSG-85 for Christmas,” Stiles whispers, enthralled and buzzing with energy as he pulls it out completely. He stuffs Derek’s card into the inseam pocket of his coat because he doesn’t want Erica or anyone else reading it- because that shit is delicate and private- and he’d hate to lose it. 

“Oh shit,” Erica breathes, impressed despite her werewolfiness which renders weapons unnecessary. “Is it weird to be sexually attracted to a weapon?” 

“No,” Stiles snorts, because he’s definitely always had a thing for rifles. He’s a goddamn sniper for fucksake. “We’re assassins. We love powerful weapons of any kind. That’s like, rule number one.” 

“I’m sure Derek’s super flattered,” she leers, but Stiles is too wrapped up in assembling the weapon that the innuendo barely registers. 

When he’s finished, Stiles heads straight back out to the terrace again, Erica at his side and it’s a testament to the profession that no one bats an eye at the powerful assault weapon in his grip. Well, okay maybe his father’s eyes widen a little, but Stiles is willing to ignore that. 

He reaches the balcony in 0.2 seconds, bracing the weapon on the concrete edge as he looks into the scope. The NSG-85 comes with its own monopod to support it, but Stiles is feeling old school and the ledge is more than sufficient enough to get the job done. Fifth avenue is bustling with light and activity and he lets himself get swept up in the magic of it, watching the people down below who have no idea of the present danger above. Not that he’s going to be pulling any triggers right now. 

C’mon, it’s fucking Christmas. And Stiles might be a gun-toting asshole, but he’s not a psychopathic serial killer. There’s a difference. 

He hums softly to himself as he gets swept up in watching New York at its finest- full of life- and finds the cold isn’t bothering him as much anymore. He doesn’t want to jump the gun here, but there’s a definite room for improvement for his mood right now. 

Stiles can’t stop grinning. 

“That cheered you up some,” Laura observes with the typical level of disapproval and snark that’s he’s come to enjoy. Stiles is definitely growing on her, he can tell. 

“Did you know about this?” he asks, adjusting his grip lovingly, feeling how easily it responds to his touch. Yeah, this is some gift alright. Stiles is going to be thanking Derek for _weeks_. 

“Like I told you when you called me yesterday, I only heard from Derek the last time you did,” Laura points out. “But did I know my brother is an absolute sucker for you? Yeah, I’m not a dumbass.” 

Stiles is at such a higher level of gratification right now that Laura’s attitude is completely irrelevant. His shit eat grin is powerful enough to deter even her and soon enough she’s stalking away with a very Hale-like scowl to join Danny and her date's conversation- and that’s an accomplishment on its own. 

It’s not even really the new rifle that’s making him feel better. It’s the fact that Derek bought it for him, understood him well enough to know he’d love it and sent it for when Stiles would be feeling the worst- just to freaking cheer him up. He is one hell of a great fiancé. This is a definite level up. Stiles didn’t think Derek could unlock any more boyfriend achievements (their wild, enthusiastic and uninhibited sex life speaks for itself) but apparently he was wrong. 

Stiles would probably give up a hundred rifles if it meant Derek will be here to celebrate Christmas with the rest of PACK’s members. Okay fine, probably not. But he’d definitely consider it. Maybe giving up one gun. Not this one of course- he’s not batshit crazy- but another, less important rifle. Yeah. 

True love, man. 

Stiles plays a good game of indifference, but even he can’t deny he’s continually pulling Derek’s card out of his coat pocket in order to keep re-reading it. Jesus, he’s sentimental. The guy's his future husband, Stiles can't help it. 

Naturally, Lydia comes around to ruin it all. 

“Stiles you need to put that away,” she announces and it’s a testament to her unshakable fearlessness when he points the barrel toward her face and she doesn’t even blink. “Civilians in the buildings surrounding us might see you.” 

Normally, for such a beautiful piece of art which- from sight alone- drastically improved his festive rage, Stiles would launch a protest, but pointing his rifle at her had been ballsy enough and he doesn’t have enough liquid courage to go head to head with her tonight. 

So he sighs, mutters out several Christmas inspired expletives and heads back inside, disassembling the NSG-85 as he goes. Finstock’s wife is watching him with wide, terrified eyes and since he’s probably known to her as the jackass that beat her husband within an inch of his life (given, for hurting Stiles’ dad at the time) Stiles figures that’s a suitable enough revenge for his ex-boss. Mostly for totally screwing him over last year when Derek came knocking on his father's door- or more precisely, attacking from Stiles' bedroom window. 

He had, had something higher scale revenge planned for this Christmas party- although at the time he’d expected it to be with ABOM-nation and not a new business altogether- but Finstock's wife seems traumatised enough. He doesn’t want to accidentally induce a heart attack by shooting Finstock in the ass- granted, he’d intended to use rubber bullets, but still. Finstock’s wife doesn’t seem like she’d handle that well. 

Since Stiles is feeling so magnanimous, he figures Finstock’s wife’s terror will have to do for suitable recompense and drops the revenge plot altogether. 

Although, he's nowhere near cheery but at least less homicidal for now, Stiles is feeling it enough to work the room and mingle with his colleagues without wanting to throw them off into open free fall. He even meets Chris’ new girlfriend, Bianca, and although she’s a little bemused by everyone’s behaviour- Stiles isn’t even sure what cover story Chris told her- she’s handling it pretty well. 

The evening wears on and it even starts to snow a little and not in the miserable, clumpy reality way it usually does but in the light, snowflake type shit people see in movies and rave about. And Jackson ruined his favourite shirt with a chocolate fountain malfunction a few minutes ago- which Stiles may have helped along. Maybe the night is turning into a Kodak commercial after all. 

Stiles is slowly starting to think it might not be a total write-off when he spots Santa breaking in through the locked main doors. No shit. Fucking _Santa_. And since Stiles is pretty damn sure this Father Christmas dumbfuck wasn’t invited, he can confidently assume it’s an enemy, hunter or rival assassin come to kill them. Though coming dressed in the guise of Kris Kringle seems a little like overkill. 

Well, he _was_ feeling homicidal anyway. Might as well put it to good use. 

Since he’s the first one to notice, Stiles shrugs and heads from the balcony into the interior room in quick, silent strides, sneaking up on the guy who’s currently attempting to quietly close the main doors so as not to draw attention. As if wearing a fucking Santa suit is not already a big ass, flashing red and white neon sign. Honestly, their enemies are really dropping the bar. This is going to be laughably easy.

Santa goes still, shoulders tensing up as if he heard Stiles approach and he ducks to the side just as Stiles’ hunting knife splinters into the wood of the door where his head was. Fake Santa’s even got the fake white beard, white wig and everything. Stiles can’t believe he gets to kill Santa Claus so close to Christmas. It might be a dream come true. 

Santa grunts in surprise and blocks Stiles’ next strike. He’s not fast enough to block the blow to his gut though. Holy shit, Stiles just punched Santa Claus in the stomach. The holidays are _great_. Stiles doesn’t know what he was thinking. Jesus, his hand hurts though. Apparently Santa is ripped. Damn. 

“Wait-“ Santa wheezes out and hold up- 

Stiles _knows_ that voice. 

“Derek?” he gaps, yanking down the white beard, revealing his boyfriend and his ridiculous stubble which has grown out some in the time he's been away. “Holy shit!” 

He doesn’t even give Derek the chance to explain, just slams their mouths together, pushing him up against the door in his enthusiasm. After so long, the feel of him under Stiles’ hands is a fucking treat. If the costume wasn’t so freaking bulky, he might even be able to feel more. 

When Derek finally pulls away to breathe, Stiles can’t think straight. “How the fuck? I mean, why-“ 

“I finished my assignment. Came straight here,” Derek pants, and yeah, Stiles can tell he hasn’t showered in a while. It doesn’t bother him remotely, that’s how gone he is on him. “Sorry ‘m late. Jesus, you smell good.” 

“Fuck, fuck,” Stiles agrees, because he can’t think of anything else, especially when Derek’s pressing forward to nuzzle beneath his jaw. “Oh, fuck. You fucking asshole. I though you wouldn’t get back before the New Year.” 

“He was a werewolf, knew all the tricks. That’s why it took so long. But I got him, came straight here after. For you.” 

Stiles groans at that and jerks their hips together in a proper greeting. Derek makes a pained noise, probably overwhelmed by his scent because they’ve been apart for so long. Turns out Stiles is really into that shit. 

“Did you get my present?” Derek murmurs into his mouth and Stiles hums, hands reaching eagerly into his red pants. 

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “I’ve got my hand on it now.” 

Derek scowls, but rolls into the steady grip around his cock anyway. “That’s not what I-“ 

“I know. I got it. I fucking love you, dude.” 

“I missed you,” Derek manages between kisses. “Fuck, I missed you so much.” 

“Me too. I am going to kill you for taking so long. Next time there’s a problem you better fucking tell me and I’ll come with you.” 

“To kill everyone before I actually do anything, maybe.” 

Well, he’s not wrong. PACK might be a new business but Stiles’ record so far is already perfect. And he hasn’t had to spend more than a few days on an assignment yet. Maybe Derek’s a little jealous. 

It’s pretty flattering, actually. Stiles manoeuvres Derek towards a nearby table, pushing him into a booth and clambering onto his lap. He shoves his hands back into Derek’s pants again, frustrated by the scratchy material of the Santa beard rubbing against him. The costume doesn't feel much better either. Normally, he’d rip it off, but he’s pretty sure Derek’s not wearing anything else underneath it. 

“You wanna do this here?” Derek demands, when Stiles gets a hand around him again. “Where anyone could walk in on us?” 

Now is not the time for semantics. “You’ve been gone for three fucking weeks, but you still managed to make it back in time and you literally bought me the greatest gift ever. Do you even need to ask?” 

“You’re killing me,” Derek groans, but doesn’t stop him when Stiles fumbles to slick up his palm- with the lube he brought tonight so he could drunkenly jerk off in the bathroom- before wrapping around Derek’s cock again. He hisses, body taut with pleasure as he moves into it, the bliss clouding Derek’s expression before tugging Stiles closer, hands on his ass. 

“But I promised I’d stop doing that remember, honey?” Stiles teases, pulling Derek’s dick free, the tip poking out over the edge of his pants so Stiles can get a proper look at what he’s been missing out on for the last few weeks. 

Derek groans when Stiles leans in between them to suck the tip into his mouth. The sharpness of his pre-cum bursts across his tongue and he ends up grinding his trapped dick against Derek’s thigh for some vital relief, as he tastes him. 

Jesus, it’s been way too long. Stiles plans to make the most of it. So does Derek when he gently cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair and pulls him back. 

“Wait,” he mutters. “I want-“ 

Stiles shivers in anticipation, knowing exactly what Derek wants. Oh yeah, Stiles definitely wants it too. 

“But not here,” Derek adds and he’s already lifting Stiles off of him. 

“Break into an empty hotel room?” Stiles suggests. 

Derek’s barely paying attention as he pulls his pants back up and stands, sealing himself against Stiles’ back and letting his skilful hands roam free. “I just want you,” he growls, no help whatsoever and Stiles hates to be the criminal mastermind here- who’s he kidding, he loves it- but breaking an entering seems like the best option. 

Stiles tugs Derek out into the hallway and with a bit of werewolf hearing and nifty lock picking skills, they’re inside. There are no possessions to suggest it’s in use and that someone might eventually come back to a naked surprise. They don’t even make it to the bedroom, Stiles tackling Derek onto the couch and straddling him again. 

He’s tugging off his heavy coat and tossing it across the coffee table in the next instance, and Derek seizes his hips to get a good look at the sweater it reveals underneath. Stiles bought it while Derek was away. It’s an illustration of the grumpy cat wearing a Christmas hat and at the time it seemed like a fitting holiday outfit. Especially when underneath it are the words, ‘feliz navi- DON’T’. Stiles likes to dress appropriately for his Christmas parties and the sweater doesn't disappoint. At all. 

Derek only allows himself to be distracted for a second, frowning, before he’s pulling Stiles in for another kiss. It’s pretty damn good. 

“You should fuck me,” Stiles insists, once they break apart again. 

“It’s been too long, babe,” Derek whispers into his neck. “I’ll knot.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles moans, grinding down onto his lap. “Yeah. Let’s fucking do that.” 

If they don’t hurry up though, Stiles is going to embarrass himself. Derek goes to start unbuttoning the huge brown belt buckle that ropes across his stomach, but Stiles puts a hand out to stop him. 

“Leave it on.” 

Derek raises an eyebrow, but his eyes are hungry. “You got a Santa kink?” 

Stiles just shrugs and starts wiggling out of his jeans. “It’s Christmas. Seems appropriate.” 

He barely gets them down to his thighs before Derek’s seizing him, lifting him up easily and turning him around so Stiles’ back is pressed to his chest, sitting on Santa’s lap. 

“For authenticity,” he explains, shameless rubbing his bulge between Stiles' cheeks against the fabric of his underwear. 

Stiles snorts, but it turns breathless when Derek pulls down his briefs, leaving Stiles’ bare ass on his lap. Fucking hell, that’s amazing. Why did it take him so long to get here? Derek pulls out his cock again and the feel of it against his ass is like a fucking miracle. 

“Have you been good?” Derek purrs, hand wrapping around to get his fingers on Stiles’ cock. 

He curses and rolls his hips against it, but splutters out a strangled cackle. Stiles literally kills people for a living, there’s no chance in hell he’s been remotely good. 

“Not fucking likely.” 

Derek laughs, but takes the lube from Stiles’ open palm. “Still gonna fuck you anyway,” he promises, but only because he's biased. 

Stiles grins manically as he feels Derek’s lubed up fingers circle his hole. “How generous of you.” 

“I’m a very giving person,” Derek agrees as his finger slips inside. 

Jesus fuck, Stiles has missed him. Missed this. He can’t believe how relieved he feels, just knowing Derek’s back and okay, and now they’re going to get to spend Christmas together. He couldn’t have wished for a better gift. Getting his brains fucked out by his boyfriend in a Santa costume might be a close second. 

“Where did you even get this?” Stiles demands, clutching the red fabric and wiggling his hips as Derek pushes in a second finger. It takes a little longer to stretch him out, but Derek’s always been a patient motherfucker. 

“Picked it up from a store on my way here,” Derek grunts, working in a third as he tugs Stiles’ t-shirt to expose more skin. “Wanted to surprise you.” 

“Nothing surprises me,” Stiles mutters when Derek deems him ready and slowly withdraws his fingers. The sounds of him slicking up his cock, drives Stiles to the brink of snapping. “Jesus, Derek. You trying to torture me?” 

“No,” Derek insists, but he brings his hand around Stiles’ body to jerk him while he slowly edges his cock inside and he’s a fucking liar. That’s what he is. 

“Oh my God,” Stiles moans, as Derek presses in deeper, working himself inside in tortuous nudges that light him up all over. “You’re a bastard.” 

Derek doesn’t seem too offended when he clenches his hand and works his wrist, enclosing Stiles’ dick in slick, unbearable heat. 

“Noooooo,” he protests, finding it hard to speak, he’s so overwhelmed. “You’re gonna make me come.” 

“That’s the plan,” Derek growls and finally, finally eases out before he arches his back, thankfully letting go of Stiles’ dick in order to hold his hips. 

Stiles feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs and it’s so, so great when they quickly work out a rhythm together. They’re pretty much pros at this. Stiles deserves a fucking medal. He reaches back and holds onto Derek’s neck for purchase while they move, heat and friction making his rapidly approaching finish way too easy. Derek’s tugged the fake beard under his chin, but it’s still itchy as hell and scratches irritatingly against Stiles’ neck. 

“Fuck,” he says, but what he means is- get that shitty fake beard away from me before I burn it. 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, and seems to understand him anyway because in the next second, there’s the snap of elastic and said ratty beard is flying across the room. 

It’s a testament to the wonders of Derek Hale that he doesn’t lose pace and locates Stiles’ prostate like it’s personally offended him. God, he's amazing. Stiles doesn’t last long, desperately putting his hands on his cock and stripping it frantically as his body tightens up and comes. 

Derek grips him harder, shaking as his orgasm shoots through him a moment later and hello, there’s the freaky werewolf cock Stiles is so fond of. He sighs as the knot is pumped slowly inside him as Derek’s thrusts even out, sealing them together. 

Ever since Derek discovered his dick could do wondrous werewolf things, he and Stiles have been going crazy trying it in every which way they possibly can. For the sake of scientific inquiry, of course. One time Stiles got him so worked up that Derek kept him knotted for two hours- that had been an interesting afternoon- luckily they like to keep reading material next to their bed. And weapons, because Stiles is a paranoid fucker. 

Either way, it’s great to finally have his fiancé back and Stiles gets comfortable to wait out the knot pushing Derek’s come into him. He keeps grinding his hips in small increments though, mostly because he fucking loves the feel of Derek’s knot inside him. Jesus, it’s been too long. 

“I love you,” Derek slurs, and he sounds a little out of it, pumped full of Stiles’ scent and probably getting off on them locked together. Stiles definitely knows he is. 

“My big, scary alpha,” Stiles says fondly, turning a little so that he can kiss him. 

Derek allows it, but when he pulls back his eyes are a warning red and he’s nipping playfully at Stiles’ throat. 

“My ruthless assassin,” he retorts, pushing his hips up tight so Stiles’ withering response is lost in a groan. 

Whatever. Derek gets the point.  
  
  


  
  


When they’ve finished up, tumbled into the shower together to get clean and then dried off, Stiles in fact, discovers that Derek does have clothes besides the Santa suit half drenched in jizz. Luckily for him. 

Stiles gets dressed and heads out into the hallway to find the backpack Derek stuffed in emergency stairway there and has a tender moment of nostalgia for the last time he was in a stairway fleeing the premises- from 70 floors up. Granted, Derek had been at the bottom, giving chase, but now he can at least look back on the memory with affection. 

He brings the backpack with him so Derek can get dressed into something less festive. If he had his way though, Stiles would just prefer he stay naked. Their friends and family and the considerable snow outside and sub zero temperatures says otherwise. Unfortunately. 

Once they’re reasonably presentable- Stiles spots the number of hickeys Derek left on the back of his neck in the bathroom mirror and scowls- they finally head back out into the party. 

Derek’s second arrival is treated with much more enthusiasm than his first. Since apparently no one gives two shits about Santa, but an alpha werewolf is much more worthy of their attention. Isaac is first to hug him, seemingly ecstatic he’s unharmed then proceeds to show a picture of Brutus. It’s a testament to their love that Derek blanches and instantly glances in Stiles’ direction just in time to catch the smirk. 

Laura interrupts them then, introducing her date who Derek appears to approve of before Stiles’ dad is cutting through the group of deadly assassins- pushing, no less where is his self preservation?- so that he can wrap his arms around his future son-in-law. 

“Looks like you got your happy ending, hey?” he winks, noticing Stiles’ flushed skin and wet hair for what it really is. 

Sweet Lucifer, he’s a menace. Oh, fuck, wait _no_. But there's no stopping his father once he's on a roll. The Sheriff goes to make that absolutely humiliating gesture again, but Allison- thank _Christ _\- grabs his hand at the last second, pulling it back down with a consolatory pat. He doesn’t want to know how she knew to avoid that. It’s probably safer.__

For now, Stiles isn’t going to worry about it. 

He’s going to fucking let his hair loose with the people he loves, plus Jackson, and get drunk standing outside in the snow with his fiancé to make out with and keep each other warm while they get swept up in New York below. Now that’s fucking teamwork if he ever saw it. They are going to kill it when PACK games comes around in the New Year. 

Stiles grins and takes Derek’s hand, feeling warm all over. “I sure did,” he replies, too gone to even be embarrassed. “Now it’s fucking Christmas. Who wants to get drunk?” 

The sudden clinking of glasses and wild, boisterous cheers say _hell fucking yes_. 

Stiles is sure as hell gonna drink to that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
